


through the years we all may be together

by luxluminaire



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 11:51:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13146120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxluminaire/pseuds/luxluminaire
Summary: It's time for the 2014 Goddard Futuristics holiday party, but not everyone is eager to celebrate. Pryce contemplates the value of the holidays, Maxwell and Jacobi share a few drinks and confessions, and Cutter enjoys a final post-party tradition--and the end, maybe holiday cheer isn't that hard to find after all.





	through the years we all may be together

**Author's Note:**

> so I never thought I'd be using the "fluff" tag anywhere near Pryce and Cutter but here we are
> 
> also even though I started writing this a couple weeks ago, I retroactively made this fit to come after the "Happy Holidays" mission mishaps episode, since it's not specified what year that episode takes place in

Pryce has no use for holiday celebrations. She takes a purely utilitarian approach to most of her life, only giving attention to what is useful to her, and holidays do not often fall into that category. As much as she tries to stay away from the diversions and distractions that barge their way into Goddard Futuristics headquarters every December, they never fail to find her eventually. It always ends the same way, and when Cutter comes into her office one afternoon wearing a garishly obnoxious tie featuring actual glowing Christmas lights, she cannot help but groan.

“What do you want, Marcus?” she asks. As much as she wants to return to her work, the lights on his god-awful tie refuse to be ignored. She settles for keeping one eye on her computer screen while the other remains fixed upon the stark deviation from Cutter’s usually meticulously paired suit and tie combinations. One of the many advantages of a cybernetically enhanced optical system: she can easily split her visual intake when necessary.

“It’s my personal office holiday party tonight,” Cutter replies. “I assume you got my invitation.”

Pryce sighs in exasperation. “I get your invitation every year, and what do I say each time?”

“Oh, come on, Miranda. Where’s your holiday spirit?” Cutter leans a hand casually against the corner of her desk. “What’s wrong with taking a break every now and then for a little bit of merriment?”

“And do you expect the next generation of Sensus units to design themselves while I’m off partaking in--what did your invitation call it? Something about food, drink, and holiday fun?”

“There’s even going to be a chocolate fountain this year,” Cutter says brightly.

“God forbid I miss that,” mutters Pryce. She pulls up her to-do list for the evening: reprogram the electrical distribution system for the third-generation Sensus units so that they will not face the same persistent issues that plague the code of the 200-series, debug one of the malfunctioning zero-gen AIs that assists in the accounting department, and run some tests on the personal archiving program that she has been writing. Cutter may have no issue with stopping his work for frivolities, but festive merriment has no place in Pryce’s schedule.

“I’ll make sure to eat some chocolate-covered strawberries just for you.” Cutter regards her for a moment before picking up a pen and twirling it between his fingers in an idle motion. “Honestly, I‘m not sure why you’re such a Grinch about the holidays. You know what they say. It’s the most wonderful time of the year! There’ll be parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting, and caroling out in the snow!”

Pryce continues to type at the computer. “As if you’re going to find any snow here in Canaveral.” At Cutter’s quiet noise of exasperation, she looks up from her work. “It always plays out the same way, doesn’t it? You celebrate in your way, and I celebrate in mine, and both of us are happy when all is said and done.”

“Mm.” Cutter places the pen back on Pryce’s desk. “But it never hurts to change up the script every now and then.”

“Maybe,” Pryce concedes. The lights on Cutter’s tie continue to twinkle. They move in a pattern according to their spacing and color, dancing across the green fabric that makes up the Christmas tree. There’s an almost beautiful symmetry to it, if the context weren’t so tacky.

“Well, I hope you have fun with your Sensus units tonight,” says Cutter. He steps away from Pryce’s desk. “I’ll be thinking of you slaving away down here in your lab while the rest of us are enjoying ourselves.”

“Enjoyment is a subjective concept, Marcus.” Sensus units and their lines of code are perfectly good company, after all, as long as they do not resist her perpetual strides to change and improve them. Pryce sometimes regrets choosing to send some of the more troublesome units that she has designed out into the field despite their past indiscretions, if only because there’s nothing more satisfying than putting a misbehaving AI in its place when it thinks it has power over her. “I’m sure you have lots to do before tonight,” she continues on. “I’ll see you later.”

“That you will,” Cutter says with a quiet chuckle.

He turns and walks out of the office, humming “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” to himself in his departure. After has has shut the door behind him, Pryce frowns at the to-do list in front of her on the computer. She has lost nearly three minutes to the distraction of Cutter’s presence, and she still has so much left to do. The cursor blinks in between the tasks of “debug malfunctioning AI” and “test archiving program,” taunting her to add another item to the list. With a sigh, she adds another task, the two simple words of “Christmas tradition.” She may not have time for holiday parties, but like she has told Cutter, she _does_ have her own way of celebrating. It’s nothing extravagant, nor as grand and stylish as anything that Cutter does, but even the simplest of traditions hold the closest thing to value that the Christmas season can give. The script repeats itself, like an endlessly looping piece of code, and year after year Pryce knows that this night will always bring her to the same place. Not Cutter’s party, of course, but rather a quieter and more private means of celebration with the one person whom she could ever call a friend.

“Congratulations, Marcus,” she murmurs to herself as she sends out a memo for someone to bring a bottle of eggnog to her office before the end of the evening. “You’ve always known me far too well.”

She returns to her work, and in spite of her best efforts, a perpetual loop of cheerful carols plays itself in her head for the rest of the night.

* * *

Maxwell hates parties. There’s a reason why her chosen career involves copious hours in the AI labs or out on top-secret missions, allowing her to bypass most corporate get-togethers --except, of course, when Kepler ends up strong-arming her into attending a Goddard Futuristics holiday party. Even the small, intimate gathering of the various members of Cutter’s inner circle qualifies as too much socialization, and without a mission objective to keep her occupied she quickly grows bored with the proceedings.

She finds herself a quiet corner of the festively decorated conference room, watching instead of participating as she sips her way through a bottle of hard cider. The sound of approaching footsteps gives her a jolt of _Oh no, who do I have to politely engage with this time?_ until she looks up from her phone and sees Jacobi.

“Ready to stop being a wallflower and join the party?” he asks.

Maxwell puts her phone away. “Hey, get off my case. You hate being here as much as I do.” She snatches a couple of chips off the almost-empty plate of chips and salsa that Jacobi carries with him. In his other hand he holds two empty shot glasses, which he sets on a nearby table. “Don’t tell me they ran out of drinks at the bar already,” she says.

“Nah, I just found us a Christmas surprise to help get us through this.” A mischievous gleam shines in Jacobi’s eyes, the kind of look that he gets when a mission calls for a particularly impressive explosion. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small flask. The initials engraved upon it-- _WJK_ \--bring a frown to Maxwell’s lips.

“How the hell did you get that?” she asks.

“Like I’m going to give away all of my magician’s secrets.” Jacobi takes the lid off the flask and pours a swallow of amber liquid into each of the shot glasses. “It’s not a real party until you’re doing shots of your boss’s whiskey, right?” He passes one of the glasses to her. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Maxwell echoes him.

They clink their glasses together. The whiskey burns Maxwell’s throat as it goes down, but she swallows it with no trouble. The taste brings a rush of the forbidden but also a sense of disappointment, like sneaking an early peek at your presents and ruining the magic of Christmas morning. Usually being offered Kepler’s whiskey is a privilege, a sign of his trust, but now it has been recontextualized into an act of sneaky rebellion. But what Kepler doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and surely the loyal service that Maxwell has given him since finally accepting a job with Goddard Futuristics has to merit her some degree of automatic whiskey privileges.

“How are you enjoying your first Cutter Christmas extravaganza?” Jacobi asks her as he safely tucks away Kepler’s flask. “You haven’t lived until he tries to get us to play holiday charades or some crap like that.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” Maxwell surveys the scene in front of her: boring people probably talking about boring things. “I think I liked last Christmas better.”

She has been working for Goddard for a year and a half by now, but during the previous Christmas she, Jacobi, and Kepler had been away on a mission during the day of Cutter’s holiday party along with Christmas itself. It’s a stark contrast, comparing that Christmas with the ones that preceded it. Christmas Eve 2003, age fifteen, fidgeting her way through one of her father’s sermons with her only Christmas wish being to get the hell out of small-town Montana. Christmas Eve 2013, age twenty-five, helping her best friend blow up a building with neither of them feeling any guilt about it. How the holidays change with the passage of time and the abandonment of an old life.

“What, spending Christmas Day holed up in a cheap motel as the Major goes over strategies and you write computer programs?” Jacobi makes a mock-horrified face. “Oh, God. You _would_ consider that fun. Nerd.”

“Pyro,” Maxwell retorts, nudging him teasingly.

The burn of the whiskey lingers in her throat. Despite the strangely not-right feeling that comes with drinking whiskey stolen from Kepler, the taste leaves her longing for more. Perhaps a little bit of pleasant tipsiness is what she needs to get through the remainder of the evening.

“You wanna pour me another shot?” she asks.

Jacobi glances around their surroundings to ensure that Kepler is not nearby. He then takes out the flask and refills both shot glasses. Maxwell takes one and swiftly downs its contents before Jacobi even has a chance to pick up the other glass. She exhales a deep breath, coughing at how quickly the alcohol has gone down.

“I guess last Christmas _was_ pretty good,” Jacobi concedes after he places his now-empty shot glass back on the table. “That was a nice bomb that I ended up using. I don’t think I’ve had that much fun causing some holiday explosions since I was a kid.”

Maxwell raises her eyebrows. “Do I want to know why you were blowing things up on Christmas when you were a kid?”

“Well, uh, let’s just say I got a little too creative with a chemistry set that I got one year,” Jacobi replies. “Contrary to the extremely talented specimen that stands in front of you, little Daniel was not very precise when it came to explosions. There are probably still a few burn marks in my childhood bedroom if you know where to look.”

“Must be nice to have good Christmas memories,” Maxwell murmurs. Her thoughts remain on the Christmases of years past, when she’d been forced to spend time with the family that she hated. There had been days leading up to each Christmas in her childhood when she wondered if she get any presents at all, or if her parents would make an example of her for not conforming to the expectations that they had for their children. She does not mention any of this to Jacobi, of course. All he knows is that she doesn’t like talking about her family and no longer has any contact with them, because she has no intention of dredging up those old and unpleasant memories if she doesn’t have to.

“Wait, not even anything from when you were a kid?” asks Jacobi. “Jesus. That probably makes being stuck here at the corporate Christmas special from hell even worse.”

“Hey, we’ve got a flask of the Major’s whiskey. I’m not gonna complain.” Maxwell takes the flask from where Jacobi has left it on the nearby table and refills the two shot glasses. She holds up her glass and adopts her best impression of Kepler. “Bottoms up, _Mr._ Jacobi.”

“Same to you, _Doctor_.”

Maxwell almost spits out her drink when a laugh catches in her throat when the shot is halfway down. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sets the glass back on the table. Jacobi takes the flask and shakes it slightly to check how much whiskey remains in it. He frowns at its remaining contents, or lack thereof.

“We should probably buy him a new bottle of whiskey after tonight, huh?” he says. “It can be our joint last-minute Christmas present.’

“Maybe throw in a glass that says ‘I like the feel of it in my hand,’” Maxwell suggests. She pulls out her phone to check Amazon for custom-etched glass tumblers, but she barely gets through the first page of results before Jacobi is elbowing her into attention and hastily concealing the stolen flask in his pocket.

“There you two are,” Kepler says. “The Secret Santa exchange is starting soon. I want you over there in five minutes showing every ounce of holiday spirit that you possess.”

“Uh, yes, sir. We’ll be right there.” Jacobi elbows Maxwell again. She looks at him with confusion until she realizes the distinct lack of Secret Santa presents that they have brought with them. Her raised eyebrows turn into a scowl of _Oh hell no, I am_ not _taking the fall for this one_ as she elbows him in return. Jacobi pats his pocket that holds Kepler’s flask and jerks his head in Kepler’s direction in a silent response of _I’ve already done one thing to potentially piss him off tonight, so now it’s your turn_. With a sigh of defeat, she turns toward Kepler and puts up her best semblance of innocence.

“We, um. We didn’t think we’d be coming to this until a few hours ago,” she says. She suspects that her words are useless from the moment they leave her mouth, but she presses onward regardless. “So we didn’t bring any gifts. But considering I don’t remember us drawing names in the first place, _technically_ we’re off the hook, right?”

“You are absolutely _not_ off the hook, Doctor,” replies Kepler. “But fortunately for the two of you, I’m not in the habit of letting my top operatives look irresponsible. I took care of both of your gifts. Try not to make it obvious that you have no idea who you bought for.”

“Yes, sir,” Maxwell and Jacobi respond in unified reluctance.

“Good.” Kepler turns to walk away from them, but then he stops and looks over his shoulder. “And I’d like my flask back before the end of the night, Mr. Jacobi.”

“Unbelievable,” mutters Jacobi. At Kepler’s narrowed eyes, he clears his throat. “I mean, yes, sir.”

“Five minutes,” Kepler reminds them. “Full holiday spirit.”

He departs. Now tasked with the new challenge of having to both socialize _and_ pretend that she is enjoying herself, Maxwell peers into the bottom of her shot glass, tilting it to see if any traces of whiskey remain. Nothing but the smallest dribble is left at the bottom, however, certainly not enough for her to drink.

“What do you think?” Jacobi says. “One more shot to get us nice and drunk by the time Santa Claus comes to town?”

“God, yes.”

She holds out her empty glass to him. With one final clink of their glasses, they drink in unison, and even before the night has concluded Maxwell knows that despite the annoyance of a company holiday party, being able to celebrate with Jacobi and Kepler makes this Christmas worthwhile after all.

* * *

Jacobi is mostly a social drinker these days--an occasional beer with Maxwell after a long day of work, a glass of whiskey when Kepler is feeling generous, a drink or two at whatever work events he is forced to attend. He no longer needs to drown himself in day-drinking at the cheapest bars he can find, letting alcohol wash away his guilt and self-loathing. It’s a good change, he acknowledges, now that he has Kepler and Maxwell and impressive explosions to keep him happy. The consequence, however, is that his alcohol tolerance isn’t what it used to be. By the time Cutter’s holiday party comes to an end, he’s--well, not _completely_ trashed, but certainly verging on that territory.

The elevator walls spin around him as he and Maxwell make their way out of the Goddard Futuristics corporate building. Maxwell is much steadier on her feet than he is, standing fully upright while Jacobi leans against the elevator wall for support. It’s unfair, really, that she probably drank more than he did and yet is currently functioning much better--the curse of having a friend who can drink him under the table on most days.

“Do you need me to carry you out of here?” Maxwell asks.

“Nope!” Jacobi’s own voice is too loud in his ears. “I’m fine. _Totally_ fine.”

The elevator dings, and its doors open up into the lobby. Jacobi wavers slightly as he steps away from the wall and out of the elevator, but he manages to walk out of the building in something resembling a straight line. A fleet of self-driving cars wait outside, offering a safe method for everyone to return home if they have been drinking. Working for one of the world’s most advanced tech conglomerates definitely has its perks, Jacobi thinks as he slides into the backseat of one of the cars. Not only has it introduced him to some of the best people he has ever met, but the convenience of modern innovations makes his life that much easier.

Beside him, Maxwell programs the GPS, her fingers flying across the touchscreen interface with the precision of someone much more sober than she likely is. The car’s automated message of “Arriving at your destination in fourteen minutes. Please enjoy your trip” echoes through the speaker system. The operating systems of Goddard’s self-driving cars do not contain the full-minded intelligence of the Sensus units that pilot the company’s air and space crafts, but they still function as more-than-effective disembodied taxi drivers. Jacobi wouldn’t be surprised if Maxwell knows a couple of hacks to increase the car’s efficiency and get them home faster, considering how the drive usually takes more than fifteen minutes.

The sound of an obnoxiously cheerful Christmas playlist fills the car. Maxwell groans and turns off the music before the first few notes of “Jingle Bell Rock” finish playing. As the car drives out of the parking lot, Jacobi leans his cheek against the window, watching the dark scenery pass him by. His head spins with jumbled thoughts and memories as he half-listens to Maxwell talking herself through the work that she plans to do when she gets home. When she reaches a lull in her musings about operating system modifications, one of Jacobi’s thoughts spills forth unprompted with no regard to what it may reveal.

“I really love the Major.” The words come out as a mumbled confession, and he’s not even sure whether Maxwell has heard him until she responds.

“Yeah, he’s pretty great.”

He lifts his head from the window with a groan of frustration at Maxwell’s obtuseness. “Noooo,” he says. “I _love_ him.”

Silence falls across the car. Internally, Jacobi is screaming a little, because yes, he just admitted _that_. He has drunkenly confessed embarrassing things on prior occasions, but none of them have been nearly as incriminating as this one, which makes him want to hide under the car’s seats and pretend that he never said anything.

Maxwell stares at him. Every streetlamp that the car passes by briefly illuminates her face before it falls into shadow once more. She does not wear the look of surprise or judgment that Jacobi expects, and instead only the slightest trace of a frown crosses her lips.

“Yeah,” she replies finally. “I figured as much.”

She speaks with an air of mere observation, rather than the intrigue of uncovering a delicious scandal. Maxwell has never been taken aback by any of the details of his personal life, though. When he’d casually come out to her in the way he often does, with a humorous comment that he can easily play off as a joke if he gets a less-than-positive reaction, she’d only laughed in relief and said “Oh, thank God, because I’m not straight either.” That conversation had only further cemented their friendship, making them a couple of gay misfits who also happen to be _really_ good at their incredibly dangerous jobs.

“Wait,” Jacobi says, registering the full meaning of Maxwell’s words and the nonchalance with which she utters them. “You _knew_?” A slight sense of panic rises within him-- _if she suspects something, then who else does?_ \--but Maxwell has always been able to read him like a book, or perhaps like one of her AIs for whom she can immediately diagnose the problem.

Maxwell gives a brief snort of laughter. “No offense, but you’re not exactly subtle about it.”

“Oh,” is all Jacobi says. _Kepler_ is certainly subtle about it, however, and so the true nature of their relationship is not something that Jacobi has a word for, not like the simplicity of “best friend” that he has for Maxwell. He is more than Jacobi’s boss, certainly, but any other term for their relationship reduces unspoken complexities to a label that does not quite fit. “Don’t tell anyone?” he adds.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she assures him.

“Good,” he mumbles.

He leans against her, his head resting on her shoulder in one of the easy expressions of physical contact that they have fallen into during their friendship. Maxwell pats the top of his head fondly as the buildings and trees outside the window continue to pass them by, bringing them closer to their destination.

“Daniel?” she says, breaking the silence that has fallen between them. Her voice is softer and more vulnerable than before, as if she intends to confess something of her own.

“Hmm?”

“I know neither of us like this holiday crap all that much, but… I’m glad that I’ve had you and Kepler to celebrate with these past two years. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family that I actually like.”

Jacobi laughs. “Never knew someone’s ideal family would be a ballistics guy and a pretentious whiskey-drinking major.”

“You’d be surprised,” Maxwell replies. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. You make Christmas actually kind of okay.”

“Yeah. So do you.”

Their friendship is not built upon the admissions of genuine sentiments like these, but in Jacobi’s current hazy mental state he does not mind the moment of earnestness that would make his sober self roll his eyes. He cannot be a sarcastic asshole _all_ the time, after all, and sometimes it’s nice to give proper words to thoughts and feelings that often go unspoken.

The car soon pulls up in front of their apartment building with a cheerful automated message of “You have arrived at your destination.” The journey from the car into the building passes by in a blur of wavering steps until they reach the elevator. Jacobi leans against the wall for support, watching as Maxwell presses the button for the third floor.

“I live on the fourth floor,” he says, staring at the illuminated “3” on the display of elevator buttons in bemusement as if he has forgotten how elevators work.

“Yeah, you’re crashing on my couch tonight,” Maxwell replies. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

Jacobi certainly is not going to object to that. Maxwell’s couch is fairly comfortable, and he’d much rather have someone to complain to and make him coffee when he inevitably wakes up with a terrible hangover. It’s the closest thing he has to having Maxwell as a roommate when they are stationed in Canaveral, because _actually_ living with her would be a disaster waiting to happen.

The interior of Maxwell’s apartment is its standard mess of tech equipment. Various mechanical projects lie scattered across almost every surface, and in the corner of the living room rests a stupidly powerful computer that wouldn’t look out of place in one of Goddard’s AI labs. As Maxwell clears off the couch, Jacobi gets a drink of water from the kitchen--better late than never when it comes to staying responsibly hydrated. He refills the glass before he returns to the living room and immediately collapses onto the couch in exhaustion.

“Make me breakfast in the morning?” he jokes

“Sure,” Maxwell replies. “But don’t expect anything fancier than frozen waffles.”

Jacobi laughs. “Sounds perfect.”

Maxwell drapes a blanket over him. “Goodnight, Daniel,” she says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Alana.” A yawn partially obscures his words as he pulls the blanket more tightly around him to settle into a more comfortable position. “Goodnight.”

He closes his eyes. The sound of Maxwell working at her computer carries him off to sleep, and as he listens to the tapping of her fingers against the keyboard, he feels nothing but gratitude.

* * *

Cutter is pleased to declare that the evening has been a triumph. It always is, and he’s almost sad to see the night end. This is what it’s all about, he thinks as he walks down the hallway toward his office, whistling to himself. The past few decades for him have always been about the people, not only in the big-picture sense of humanity but also the employees who are the most important cogs in his corporate machine. And being able to celebrate with some of his most trusted pieces of that machine--that’s what makes everything worth it.

He unlocks the door to his office and stops in his tracks. Only one person at Goddard Futuristics besides himself has the key to his office, and she now sits at his desk using his computer. She does not react to his entrance even when he clears his throat to further announce his presence.

“Miranda,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Your computer is an absolute nightmare,” Pryce replies, frowning at the computer screen. “How you manage to have an old version of Internet Explorer that hasn’t been touched since 2006 and yet still has an ungodly number of recently installed toolbars is beyond me. I deleted all of that, by the way.”

“Cleaning out my computer for me.” Cutter chuckles as he approaches his desk. He perches himself on one of its corners. “Now _that’s_ quite the Christmas present.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” Pryce reaches down to retrieve a bottle of eggnog that rests beside the chair. A simple yet festive red bow adorns the top of the bottle. “Merry Christmas, Marcus.”

He doesn’t question whether she has been planning this from the moment that he walked into her office earlier in the day. It always ends the same way, after all, and there has never been a version of events that does not end with them sharing a drink together. Some things never do change no matter how many Christmases pass the two of them by, and that constance and consistency brings a smile to Cutter’s lips.

“I knew you’d come through,” he says. “You always do.”

He retrieves two glasses and pulls an extra chair up to his desk to sit down. Before he pours out the eggnog, he turns on the old-fashioned radio that rests next to his computer and tunes it to find some suitable music. He hums along with the beginning of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” as he passes a glass to Pryce. _Here we are, as in olden days_ indeed, he thinks when she reaches out to take the glass with the same unaging hand that has done so every year for decades.

He raises his glass. “To a very merry Christmas.”

“And many more to come,” Pryce echoes him.

They clink their glasses together and drink. Cutter breathes out a sigh of contentment and glances out at the dark world beyond his office window. The Florida climate does not allow for the picturesque winter scenery of gently falling snow, but the calm, quiet landscape of the Goddard Futuristics campus is strangely soothing regardless. Maybe one year he will spend the holidays somewhere cold, where he can watch the snow swirl outside his window with a mug of hot chocolate beside him. But there is too much to be done here at headquarters, and the secrets and solutions that he seeks beyond the stars will always be there, taunting him, until everything finally falls into place.

“Did you enjoy your party?” Pryce asks. She turns her glass in her hand in an absent motion.

Cutter murmurs in assent. “Rachel had me for Secret Santa this year. She always _does_ find me the best Christmas gifts.”

He takes out the gift in question, an elaborate new lighter that he would have suspected to go over the price limit for the gift exchange if he didn’t know how _very_ well-connected Rachel is. He opens one of his desk drawers to retrieve a carton of cigarettes, and he shakes one out and lights it. As times change, he finds himself smoking in his office less and less, but tonight he is more than willing to treat himself. He savors the first drag he takes, exhaling a puff of smoke with a deep breath of satisfaction.

“You know, those things are going to kill you one day if you’re not careful,” Pryce says.

Cutter chuckles. “I think by now I’m more than able to get around such pedestrian things as lung cancer.” He takes another drink from his glass, his cigarette held loosely between two fingers. The lit end glows a soft orange as it burns. “But who knows? I’m going to need a reason to retire this version of me eventually. Maybe I’ll go for something tragic this time.”

Pryce makes a murmur of acknowledgement to his words. The music swells in the background, the instrumental break transitioning into another chorus of “Here we are as in olden days.” A contented silence falls between the two of them, with no idle conversation necessary to fill the gaps. When two people have known each other for as long as he and Pryce have, sometimes there is no need for words. The unspoken enjoyment of each other’s company is enough for now.

“Another year almost gone,” Pryce finally remarks as she pours herself another glass of eggnog. “I suppose we’re not going to get any big results this year.”

“There’s still time for a deep-space Christmas miracle,” says Cutter. He taps the ashes from his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk. “I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”

“Hmm. You always were the optimist.” Pryce reaches to turn down the volume on the radio. The faint whir of her cybernetic eyes is barely audible over the last few notes of the song. “Either way, this certainly won’t be our last Christmas together.”

“Not by any stretch of the imagination, no.” Cutter chuckles softly. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Nor would I.”

A rare expression of sentimentality crosses Pryce’s face, a strange look for the woman who does not hold many personal attachments to anything but her work. But that is what makes them so effective as a team: they balance each other out, the ying and the yang of Goddard Futuristics. He works out front with the people, being the face of the company and running everything with a smile on his face and a metaphorical knife hidden up his sleeve, while she works behind the scenes creating all of the technological marvels necessary to their goals with a sense of cold pragmaticism. And when those two halves come together to create the bond of their dynamic duo--well, that’s when they become truly unstoppable.

He raises a glass to her again, and as they drink, he has never been more thankful to be able to spend this moment with her as his trusted associate, companion, and above all else, his partner for many more years to come.


End file.
